


shot at the night

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas hesitates for a second more, then he blurts out, “I might have accidentally slept with Newt.”</p><p>Teresa blinks at him, and from the incredulous expression on her face, Thomas can tell she wasn’t expecting <i>that</i>. “How do you <i>accidentally</i> sleep with someone?” she demands. “What, you tripped, he fell on top of you, and suddenly you’re both naked on a bed?”</p><p>“<i>No</i>,” Thomas scoffs indignantly. “I drunkenly professed my undying love for him.” Then he pauses thoughtfully. “But the whole naked thing is pretty much on point.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	shot at the night

_Saturday, 10:33 AM_

Thomas wakes up with a pounding head, a mouth that feels like its stuffed with cotton, and this nagging sensation that’s telling him he’s done something incredibly stupid. He rolls onto his back, wincing at the sharp pain that accompanies this sudden movement, but notes with some satisfaction that the room he’s currently in happens to be his own.

Just as he’s about to dismiss the alarms sounding in his head as the automatic response that follows a wild night out, his gaze focuses and his eyes zoom in on something that appears to be _hanging_ from the ceiling fan. He squints, trying to get the world to stop spinning long enough for him to make out what it is, because it almost looks like—yup, those are his boxers.

Thomas moves to sit up, still wondering how in God’s name his underwear ended up on the _ceiling_ of all places, but a restraint around his waist prevents him from rising more than a few inches off the mattress. Dread slams into him, and remember that stupid thing he was so sure he did? Yeah, he’s about to find out exactly what it is. Heart thudding away in his chest, Thomas carefully shifts to his other side and slowly glances downward, as if delaying the moment of truth will lessen its impact in some way.

It doesn’t. The weight turns out to be an _arm_ , which is connected to a _body_ , and this just so happens to be a _naked_ one. There are condom wrappers strewn _everywhere_ and Thomas manages to pull out an empty bottle of lube that had been digging into his thigh. Holy shit. No wonder he feels like he’s been run over by a truck.

He stares in horror at the pale skin of his bed partner’s back, which is, oh, Jesus, covered in what seem like _bite marks_ , trying to decide what to do about him. But then the guy shifts, a flash of blonde hair coming out from underneath the pillow, and Thomas realizes that the stranger next to him isn’t really a stranger after all.

His resulting scream is loud enough to wake the entire floor.

Newt immediately jerks his head off the pillow, bleary eyes focused on Thomas. “Jesus bloody fuck, where’s the fire?” He yawns and stretches his arms over his head, and this allows Thomas to sit up and turn towards him.

Thomas gapes at him, a thoroughly distressed expression on his face. “You—I—we—oh my _God_!” he wails, gesturing back and forth between them helplessly.

It just goes to show how hungover Newt really is, because it takes him an unusually long time to piece the situation together. Still blinking confusedly at Thomas, he surveys the mess around them with mild interest before finally noticing his own exposed torso. “Oh.”

“You—that’s _all_ you’re going to _say_ about this?” Thomas is aware that he’s currently bordering on hysterical, but he can’t quite bring himself to calm down. “We just—you know what, forget it.” With extreme effort, Thomas pushes himself from the bed and gets to his feet despite his body’s protests. Once he’s up, Thomas starts feeling around blindly for his clothes, trying to ignore the intensity of Newt’s gaze that’s boring into his back. “You’re right,” he says. “There _is_ nothing to say because this _didn’t_ happen.”

—

_Friday, 9:27 PM_

When Minho suggested getting out of town to celebrate their last stretch of college, Thomas wasn’t really expecting an itinerary that was basically curbed from _The Hangover._ True, the end of the semester was fast approaching, and with the promise of finals dangling oppressively over everyone, it _would_ be nice to get out of town for a bit. But _Vegas_? Sometimes, Thomas wonders if his friends could be any more cliché.

But, as Minho put it (with a pointed glare in Thomas’ direction, it’s not his fault he’s the youngest in the group, okay?), they’re all _finally_ legal and this weekend is essentially their last chance to go all out before jumping headfirst into the real world, so stop judging me, Agnes, live a little, would you?

Thomas just wishes more of their friends could have come along. But Alby has some final project that’s due next week, Brenda’s out visiting her dad, and Gally had sat through Minho explaining the plan, scoffed, then gone, “Yeah, right. Like I’m about to spend an entire weekend with two couples.” (Thomas had nearly laughed out loud when he heard; really, chance would be a fine thing.)

Because of this, Thomas ends up crammed into the backseat of Minho’s stuffy car, trying to keep his limbs to himself and attempting to breathe through the combination of the stale air and the stifling tension emanating from his two friends in front. Ever since Minho decided he liked Teresa as more than a friend, he’d gone from casually flirty to downright forward. If he wasn’t so naturally charming, Thomas is sure Teresa would have run off screaming in the opposite direction by now.

That being said, the similarities to the movie still stand. Minho even managed to get them rooms at some swanky place because apparently he’s got an aunt whose ex-husband works in management or something. Thomas seriously doubts the legitimacy of this story; he’s almost expecting Minho to start handing out disguises the second they get to the hotel.

But when they finally arrive in front of a sleek building, its driveway supported by marble pillars, an honest-to-God valet takes Minho’s keys and they’re left standing outside with all their luggage. Thomas takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with dry air, and finds that he’s happy to be wrong for once.

“So,” Minho says, smiling smugly, “not too bad, right? I bet you all thought I was lying.”

“Yeah, fine,” Teresa grudgingly admits, looking unwittingly impressed despite herself. “You did good. But don’t let it get to your head,” she adds when Minho’s grin widens. “Your ego’s inflated enough.”

“Babe,” Minho replies, throwing an arm around Teresa’s shoulders and pulling her closer to him, “you know you love me.” Teresa rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it, much to Thomas’ surprise.

“Great, everybody loves everybody,” Newt gripes, fiddling with the straps of his backpack. “Can we go inside now? Or are we planning to spend all bloody night here?”

“Just for that, you’re not rooming with me,” Minho tells him, sending Newt a wink over his shoulder as they make their way into the hotel lobby. The room is painted in a light yellow, soft music floating towards them as they pass through the automatic doors. In the distance, Thomas registers the sound of running water.

“Fine with me,” Newt counters, shrugging. “I’d rather room with Tommy, anyway,” he adds, smirking at Thomas, who flushes in response.

Here’s the thing: Thomas has a Problem (and maybe it doesn’t deserve to be capitalized, but Thomas has been told that he can be pretty dramatic at times), but it isn’t the most unusual thing to ever happen to someone; it actually goes right along with the whole cliché theme this weekend has going for it. In fact, being in love with your best friend is so laughably passé, that’s exactly what Thomas did when he first realized that Newt had been starring in his fantasies more often than what is considered strictly platonic by most people. The next thing he did was fall onto his bed in despair and hope that his feelings would magically disappear. So far they haven’t, but Thomas is nothing if not optimistic when he wants to be.

Minho’s voice snaps Thomas back into the present. “Earth to Greenie.” He waves a hand in front of Thomas’ face, a key card between his fingers. “You’re with the Brit,” Minho informs him gleefully, jabbing a thumb in Newt’s direction. “That’s fine with you, right?” Then without waiting for an answer, he plows on. “Seriously, dude, I’m _this_ close to getting with Teresa. So help me out, please?”

Thomas recoils. “Do whatever you want man,” he says, grabbing his room key from Minho. “Just keep your plans to yourself, I’ve known her since we were three.”

Minho lets out a cheer and claps Thomas on the shoulder. “Vegas, baby!”

Despite his initial skepticism, Thomas lets Minho steer him towards the elevator, a spike of adrenaline coursing through him. The lift makes its ascent, slowly gaining momentum in tandem with the excitement mounting within him.

He has a feeling that it’s going to be an eventful night.

—

_Saturday, 10:42 AM_

“What the fuck did you do to my back?” Newt twists around in front of the mirror, trying to figure out exactly how many bruises are scattered across his skin. “I look like a bloody chew toy,” he states, staring accusingly at Thomas.

From where he’s standing at the other end of the room, Thomas leans against the dresser, crosses his arms, and glares right back. “Will you put some fucking clothes on?”

To no one’s surprise, Newt ignores him and flops onto the bed instead. Turning towards Thomas, still painfully nude, he props his head on his right hand and addresses him. “Shit, Tommy, if I had known you were this kinky, I would have seduced you ages ago,” Newt drawls, his eyebrows raised suggestively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thomas growls. “I’m _not_ anything because we _didn’t_ do anything because _nothing_ happened.”

Newt sits up, and he seems almost more amused than exasperated. “You can’t live in denial forever,” he tells Thomas, and Thomas nearly snorts at that one because what does Newt know? He’d been denying his feelings for Newt for nearly two months after he first realized he had them. In this battle of wills, Thomas is so coming out on top. (Not that he’s going to mention that now or ever.)

“Watch me,” Thomas snaps. “Put. On. Your. Clothes.”

“Why?” Newt’s mouth curls into a smirk, and Thomas has to force himself not to think, _Sexy._ “Is the sight of my naked body too much for you to hand—ow, bloody hell!” he yells when Thomas hurls a pair of pants at him to shut him up.

“Listen to me,” Thomas hisses, his whisper dangerously low. He takes a challenging step towards the bed, and he’s pretty sure his head is about to explode from all the stress. “You are going to get dressed, we are going to meet Minho and Teresa for breakfast, and we will go down there and act like our relationship is the most platonic fucking thing that has ever existed on this planet. Do you understand me?”

For what is probably the first time in his life, Newt is properly stunned. He opens his mouth to reply, but when no words come out, he snaps it shut and nods slowly in consent. If Thomas wasn’t so freaked out, he’d be totally proud of himself for reducing Newt to such an uncharacteristic state.

“Fabulous.” Thomas stalks into the bathroom and grips the doorknob. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

Newt goggles him, seeming to have recovered the temporary loss of his voice. “Are you honestly going to hide in there until we have to leave?”

“Ten minutes,” Thomas repeats sharply, then he slams the door.

—

_Friday, 11:58 PM_

“I think,” Thomas slurs, trying to blink away the spots of light that are dancing in front of him, “that we’re lost.”

“Brilliant bloody deduction,” Newt mumbles back, leaning heavily against Thomas. He slowly rotates his head from side to side, as if only just acknowledging the fact that they’re alone. “Do you know where Min and Tessa went?” He hiccups and Thomas shakes his head vigorously.

Thomas has no idea what time it is, or where he is, or _what_ he is. He’s so out of it, his surroundings have started to blend together in a pleasant whirl of color and noise. The only thing still anchoring him to reality is Newt, who stands pressed against him, solid and warm and lovely at his side.

Come to think of it, Thomas can’t even remember the last time he saw their friends. Minho had dragged them all to some bar beside the hotel, they’d downed a few beers, Thomas tried to find the meaning of life at the bottom of a huge bottle of Patrón, Newt had grabbed it from his grasp, and here they are, stumbling around the lobby of their hotel like a bunch of freshmen after their first frat party.

“Oh my God, we’re so lost,” Thomas groans; they’ve passed the same creepy painting of a bunch of cats playing cards for the fourth time in a row. “This hotel is a fucking maze, Newt, we’re lost in this maze of a hotel!”

Newt sloppily presses a hand to Thomas’ mouth. “Stop saying maze,” he orders, trying to school his features into a stern frown.

“Maaaaaaze,” Thomas says, drawing the word out. The two of them lock eyes and burst into loud laughter, nearly falling over with the force of it.

With an unexpected burst of energy, Newt suddenly straightens up and grips Thomas’ hand in his, pulling him forward. Thomas allows himself to be dragged back the way they came from, the only thing on his mind being their joined skin. “Where are you taking me?”

“I’ve found the way out of this maze,” Newt announces proudly, and it’s only then that Thomas notices the elevator that’s seemingly popped out of nowhere in front of him.

“You’re my hero,” Thomas tells him, slinging an arm around Newt’s shoulders as the doors close. It’s not an excuse to keep touching him. It’s not. “Now, what floor are we on?”

Newt’s only reply is a blank stare.

—

_Saturday, 11:00 AM_

If Minho and Teresa suspect anything is amiss when Newt and Thomas enter the breakfast room, a solid two feet of space between them, they don’t say anything. Thomas piles his plate with as much food as it can possibly carry, takes his seat on the other side of the table, and immediately notices what has got his friends so occupied.

“Oh, God.” He takes in how Teresa’s got an arm linked through Minho’s, the satisfied curl to his lips, the obvious adoration in Teresa’s gaze, the dark circles under their eyes (which, ironically, match the ones on Newt’s and his own faces). “Don’t tell me.”

“I suppose a congratulations is in order,” Newt adds, sliding into the chair next to Thomas. The way they’re leaning away from each other creates such an obvious contrast to Minho and Teresa, who are sitting as close as their separate chairs will possibly allow them to, and this makes Thomas’ chest clench. “I want details,” he says, but his tone lacks its usual sarcastic bite.

Despite himself, Thomas cringes and Minho lets out a laugh. “Later, man,” he promises, and Teresa smacks his arm playfully. Thomas can practically sense the cavities forming in his mouth just watching them.

Unfortunately, Teresa puts an end to this by leaning forward and regarding Newt and Thomas conspiratorially. “So, what did you two get up to last night?” It’s possible Thomas is just imagining things, but the smile she’s wearing is almost… _knowing_.

“Excuse me?” Thomas demands, sitting up in his seat. He can feel the muscles in his back tightening. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Teresa immediately backpedals, alarmed at Thomas’ abrupt change in manner and his rigid position. “It’s just that… Tom, is your eye _twitching_?”

“ _No_ ,” Thomas lies, even as his forehead continues to throb heavily.

“Is that a _hickey_?” Minho interjects, leaning across the table and narrowing his eyes at Thomas’ neck. “Thomas, my man, did you get _laid_ last night?”

Thomas’ thoughts are a jumbled mess of _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_ , and the only thing he’s able to sputter out in front of Minho and Teresa’s questioning glances is a graceless “Uh.”

“Leave him alone!” Newt suddenly snaps, banging his hands on the tabletop and startling everyone, Thomas included. “He didn’t get any sleep last night…”

“ _Not_ ,” Thomas emphasizes quickly, waving his forefinger in the air, “that we were doing anything we shouldn’t have been…”

Newt puts his hands up in a defensive gesture, still apparently going off on a rant of his own. “…I don’t understand why two _mates_ can’t hang out in Vegas without anyone making assumptions…”

“…and I was _really_ drunk, okay?” Thomas finishes, eyes wild and veins about to pop out of his skull.

Stunned silence falls over the table in response to their outbursts. Minho and Teresa look back and forth between them in synchronization, twin expressions of shock and confusion etched all over their features. Newt begins studiously shoving pancakes into his mouth, and Thomas clears his throat, trying to stare at anything other than the people around him.

But eventually the quiet gets to be too much for him, so Thomas forces a smile; his facial muscles are so stiff, he probably resembles the Joker. “So, um,” he starts, gesturing towards Minho and Teresa, “how did this happen?”

—

_Saturday, 12:19 AM_

The two of them somehow find their way back to their room, and it takes Thomas at least three tries before he’s finally able to slot his key into the door. Once inside, Thomas immediately makes a beeline for his bed and throws himself down on it, suddenly exhausted. The high from his buzz has worn off considerably, and he’s left in that relaxed, loose stage of drunkenness that gives way to sleep.

Forcing himself to get up, he finds Newt sitting in the armchair across from him, a cigarette dangling between his lips. Thomas’ gaze goes straight to Newt’s mouth, watching as he inhales then blows smoke out from between pursed lips.

Strangely enough, Thomas’ first concern is whether or not Newt’s cracked open a window, because the smell is going to stick to everything for sure. Then the stick returns to Newt’s mouth, his thin fingers holding it carefully in place, and sitting there with his legs crossed amidst a haze of dark smoke and ash, Thomas thinks Newt looks like _sin_. (It’s probably the most poetic way Thomas has ever described another person; he should write that down and use it in an essay one day.)

“That shit will kill you, you know,” Thomas drawls, the words coming out slow, stilted, and slightly unsure.

“Maybe.” Newt takes another long drag, blows out another smoky cloud that disappears into the air, leaving nothing but a strong scent in its wake. “But it’s helping me sober up.”

“Stop it.” The words are out of Thomas’ mouth before he registers thinking them, and he struggles to break free from the haze of alcohol clouding his brain.

“Oh, yeah?” Newt smiles teasingly, but Thomas detects the challenge in his tone. He leans forward in his seat, eyes locked on Thomas. “Make me.”

Thomas reaches out and grabs the cigarette in Newt’s hand, yanking it towards him. But Newt, stubborn bastard that he is, holds onto it tight, and this inevitably leads to Newt being pulled along with it, his hands landing on either side of Thomas’ body, bracketing Thomas to the mattress. The cigarette lands somewhere over their heads and rolls off the edge of the bed, falling to the floor, forgotten.

—

_Saturday, 1:02 PM_

Thomas’ phone rings, and he answers it without checking to see who it’s from. “Hello?”

Without preamble, Brenda’s voice informs him, “Teresa says you’re acting weirder than usual.”

Thomas rolls his eyes even though he knows Brenda can’t see him. “She’s exaggerating. It’s the serotonin overdose from her newfound love life.”

“Ooh, Minho finally got to her, did he?” Brenda’s tone perks up instantly, and Thomas hopes in vain that this will be enough to distract her from asking about him. But then she follows that up with, “I’ll ask her for details later, we’re talking about you right now,” and Thomas groans.

“There’s nothing wrong!” He’s been repeating this so much in the last few hours, he’s almost starting to truly believe it. “Seriously,” he stresses, “everything’s fine.”

Brenda hums thoughtfully, and Thomas can tell from the sound of it that she doesn’t believe a single word he’s said. “This is about Newt, isn’t it?”

“ _What?_ ” Some kind of dust particle from the air must have made its way into Thomas’ throat because he starts to choke, and in between coughs and sputters, he manages to weakly stutter out, “What would give you that idea?”

“Tom, you’re one of my closest friends,” Brenda tells him. “There’s only so much you can tell me that I don’t already know.” Then after a pause, she adds, “If you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine. But since this is you we’re talking about, I’m just gonna assume you’re being stupid and that you should probably talk to him.”

“I _can’t_ talk to him!” Thomas protests before he can stop himself. Too late, he realizes he’s pretty much just confirmed that, yes, this does have something to do with Newt.

“Why not?” Brenda’s question is still carefully controlled, but Thomas is almost convinced she’s cursing him in her mind. “I’m pretty sure he feels the same—”

“Nope, we are not having this conversation!” Thomas cuts her off, voice embarrassingly close to a shriek. “You know what, I actually have to go,” he says quickly over Brenda’s confused objections. “Gotta enjoy Sin City and all that, talk to you later, B.” Thomas clicks off and shoves the phone into his front pocket, trying to control his racing heart.

Then from behind him, he hears Newt’s voice go, “There you are,” and Thomas nearly has a heart attack for real, out there on the hotel terrace, with the honking of car horns and the smell of exhaust fumes contrasting sharply with the bright blue sky.

Thomas spins around in time to watch Newt step out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Newt shrugs, ambling over to where Thomas is standing, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the jeans Thomas had thrown at his face that morning. “Needed to get away from the sexual tension fest that is Minho and Teresa’s new relationship,” he explains, and Thomas laughs.

“Look,” Newt starts, suddenly serious, and Thomas feels the brief respite from their current situation ebb away, “are we really not going to talk about what happened? Because I’m quite sure you said—”

“I know what I said,” Thomas replies quietly, turning away from the optimistic expression that crosses Newt’s features. He can’t afford to hope, not now when everything is messed up and he’s more confused than ever.

Newt exhales slowly. “Did you mean it?” he asks, and Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever heard Newt sound so uncertain.

 _Yes_ , Thomas wants to reply, wants to scream at the top of his lungs for all of the city to hear. But he can’t. Because last night was a drunken mistake, they were both too fucked to make smart decisions, and he wishes he didn’t remember anything, but he does and it _sucks_.

So instead of admitting, _Yes_ , or telling Newt, _I’ve wanted it for so long_ , Thomas says, “I have to go,” and walks away, leaving Newt standing outside alone.

—

_Saturday, 12:26 AM_

Neither of them have tried to break free from their position, and Newt is still hovering over him, both of them hardly daring to breathe in order to preserve the fragile illusion that has fallen over them. The smell of Newt’s cigarette still lingers in the air, and outside the window, Thomas listens to the sounds of a city coming alive.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Thomas says languidly, and he feels as if the words are coming from someone else’s mouth, “that I might be in love with you? Because I’m pretty sure I am.”

At first, the expression on Newt’s face doesn’t change, doesn’t even flicker for a second. He continues to watch Thomas impassively, until he suddenly dips down, the tip of his nose coming into contact with the heat of Thomas’ cheek. “Do you mean that?” he whispers, blowing warm air against Thomas’ ear, and the scent of smoke overpowers all other senses.

“Yes,” Thomas breathes, and then Newt is pressing their lips together, and Thomas is sure that he’s going to die from the lack of oxygen, especially when there’s this heady kind of rush running though him, leaving him exhilarated as it passes.

Pretty soon, mouths touching chastely turns into tongues curling into each other’s, which leads to wandering hands and lips brushing the soft skin of Newt’s neck, clothes being shed and tossed to the side, skin on skin, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of Newt’s chest, scratching and marking, and Thomas floats away, lost in this moment of pure bliss that he never wants to come back from.

—

_Saturday, 2:35 PM_

It takes Thomas a lot longer than he cares to admit that Brenda may have been right and he probably needs to talk to someone about this before he combusts. Because Newt is out of the question and Minho is more likely to laugh at him until he decides that jumping off the roof is a better option, he catches himself outside Teresa’s room, jumpy with nerves and hoping he’s not about to walk in on something he’d rather not witness.

He knocks softly on the door, and when it opens, Teresa is standing on the other side wearing a bathrobe and an expectant look. “Hey, you alone?” he asks his oldest friend.

Teresa gives him a once-over then sighs. “Yup,” she replies, and Thomas edges his way into the suite. He automatically makes for the double bed, but thinks better of it at the last minute and sits on the floor instead. Teresa notices and grins sheepishly at him. “Good choice,” she says, then settles down next to him.

“Where’s Minho?” Thomas scans the room suspiciously; he wouldn’t be surprised if Minho was hiding behind the couch or something, secretly taping his confession.

“Oh, he and Newt went off somewhere,” Teresa responds airily, waving a hand dismissively, and Thomas knows it means that Minho’s probably trying to get Newt to talk, too. He exhales, and then Teresa says, “So, are you going to tell me what happened now or not?”

Thomas fidgets, twisting his fingers together shakily. “I kind of did something,” he admits, trying to figure out how to phrase everything else.

Teresa examines him, a dubious frown on her face, then she narrows her eyes. “You didn’t get married, did you?”

Thomas stares at her, taken aback. “No!” he exclaims, then his eyebrows furrow together. “At least…I don’t think so.” He makes a mental note to check his room for any marriage certificates or cheap rings lying around later. “No, I, uh…”

“Spit it out, Tom,” Teresa commands him. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Thomas hesitates for a second more, then he blurts out, “I might have accidentally slept with Newt.”

Teresa blinks at him, and from the incredulous expression on her face, Thomas can tell she wasn’t expecting _that_. “How do you _accidentally_ sleep with someone?” she demands. “What, you tripped, he fell on top of you, and suddenly you’re both naked on a bed?”

“ _No_ ,” Thomas scoffs indignantly. “I drunkenly professed my undying love for him.” Then he pauses thoughtfully. “But the whole naked thing is pretty much on point.”

“Okay,” Teresa replies slowly. “I’m still trying to understand what’s so bad about this,” she adds, shaking her head.

“ _Everything_ about this is terrible!” Thomas exclaims, dramatically banging his head against the soiled mattress. “I’ve fucked everything up. That is a problem.”

Teresa snorts, and Thomas straightens up and levels a glare in her direction. Some friend. “It’s a problem because, as usual, you’re freaking out over nothing.”

“T, when your best friend from childhood is sad, you give them _sympathy_ ,” Thomas informs her, a stiff edge to his tone. “If I wanted a life coach, I would have talked to Alby.”

“Please, Alby would have told you the same thing.” But she must sense how overwhelmed Thomas really is, because her face softens and her voice grows increasingly more gentle. “Do you want to stay here tonight?” Teresa asks, and Thomas nods. “I’ll call for new sheets,” she says, getting to her feet and patting his head.

Thomas lies down on the hardwood floor, peering despondently at the ceiling. And because Teresa isn’t actually a terrible person and does love him a lot, she takes one look at him and adds into the phone, “And maybe send up some ice cream, too, please.”

“Thank you,” Thomas responds weakly.

—

_Sunday, 4:51 PM_

The drive home is awkward to say the least. Thomas had spent the whole Saturday locked in Teresa’s room, gorging himself on ice cream and slowly making his way through every romantic comedy the hotel had on demand. And as a result, the first time he sees Newt since their conversation on the roof is when they’re about to embark on the long drive home.

Teresa must sense the panic in Thomas’ eyes as he contemplates being stuck next to Newt for the next four or so hours, because she insists on Thomas taking the wheel to give Minho a break, and she calls shotgun before anyone has the chance to say anything. That, combined with the fact that she’s probably dying to be near Minho and is only doing this for him, and Thomas feels a million times more grateful and infinitely more terrible.

Minho and Teresa manage to keep up a steady stream of chatter initially, but as the journey lengthens and it becomes clear that neither Newt or Thomas are planning on contributing to the conversation, their attempts quickly die out and the rest of the trip is spent in tense silence.

At long last, Thomas finally pulls into the student parking lot of their university, and he’s out of the car like a shot, sending a halfhearted wave at his friends as he leaves. Walking as fast as he can, he makes his way to his building and practically sprints up the stairs in his haste to get inside.

The second Thomas walks into his apartment, he dumps his bag on the ground, falls face first onto the couch, and is out like a light.

—

_Monday, 3:44 AM_

Thomas’ phone wakes him up at nearly four in the morning, which is horrible.

He jerks awake from what is probably the most peaceful he’s been all weekend, and when he sees Teresa’s name on the screen, he’s almost tempted to let it go to voicemail. But considering what Teresa’s done for him in the last two days, Thomas figures he owes her this much, even if it means being subjected to a discussion about Minho’s abs.

“T?” he tries to say into the receiver, clearing his throat when nothing but an indistinguishable scratchy noise comes out of his mouth. “Did he try to do that thing with his tongue again?”

Whoever it is on the other end goes, “Whatever that thing is, I don’t want to know,” and it’s not Teresa. Of course it’s fucking not.

“Does Teresa know you _stole_ her phone?” Thomas demands, trying to mask his panic with an indignant tone. Oh, God, it’s too early for him to be dealing with this.

There’s a pause, and then Newt replies, “Probably, seeing as she’s the one who gave it to me in the first place.”

Thomas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you want?”

There’s a sharp knock on his door, and Thomas tries to tell himself that he’s not entirely surprised, because when has Newt ever been known to back down from anything? It’s one of the reasons Thomas loves him so much after all.

“Open the door, Tommy,” Newt orders, and because Thomas is a useless shell of a man this early in the day (and because Newt’s authoritative tone is pretty hot), against his better judgement, Thomas actually does.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Newt begins right away, voice steely and determined as he enters Thomas’ apartment, “that I might be in love with you, too?” He stops directly in front of Thomas, his eyes hard. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re an idiot.”

Thomas tries to swallow down the tightness that has formed in his throat, hardly allowing himself to believe the things that are coming out of Newt’s mouth. “You’re my best friend,” he tells him. “This would just fuck everything up.”

Newt shrugs blithely, as if Thomas’ concerns had hardly registered to him at all. “Then we won’t let it,” he says easily, and when he senses Thomas about to argue, he holds a hand up to stop him. “Come on, Tommy. It’s us.” He takes another step closer until they’re practically inches apart. “We’re better than that.”

It’s only then, in the face of Newt’s complete and total confidence in them, in their relationship, that Thomas finally allows himself to feel the first stirrings of hope flare up within him. If Newt doesn’t think this whole thing will crash and burn, then maybe it won’t. Newt’s always known best after all. “Newt—”

“It’s not just you,” Newt goes on, completely unaware of the impact his words have on the strings around Thomas’ heart. “It never has been.”

That does it. Thomas crashes their mouths together, one hand coming up to curve his fingers around the base of Newt’s jaw, his thumb running a smooth line along the surface of Newt’s cheek, and it suddenly dawns on Thomas that _this_ , this is all he wants to do, every single day, as often as possible, for the rest of his life.

“So.” Thomas grins at him impishly when they finally break apart. “You’ve always been into me, huh? I knew I was irresistible.”

Newt laughs, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Thomas’ jeans, and pulls him close. “Tommy, shut up.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Thomas’ smile grows impossibly wider, and he winks at Newt devilishly. “Make me.” 

Newt responds by kissing him until he does.


End file.
